Friday, 31 August 2012

When I travel to a new place, I often keep a journal. Although my journals are self-indulgent—how I feel, what I think, what something means to me (yawn)—I can’t help but fall into a pattern of recording, by text or image, the subjects I find most compelling. Street signs, billboards, food carts, rusted out gas stations and convenience stores, dusty streets, and people, strange and interesting people, fill my camera and notebooks. I usually end up tossing out half of it a year later. But old habits die hard. The next trip, there I go again: the same rust, the same dust, the same neon signs, the same crooked smiles and haggard eyes.

That’s why I’m not surprised about Killip. Elsworth P. Killip (1890-1968), Head Curator of the U.S. National Herbarium from 1946 to 1950 and expert on South American phanerogams, kept a travelogue of a fun filled canoe trip down the Adirondack rivers. This travelogue is available for reference within the Smithsonian Institution Archives collection, Ellsworth Paine Killip Papers, 1914-1950. Like me, Killip couldn’t resist his habits, turning the travelogue of his vacation into part field book of observation and documentation. Although I didn’t find any evidence in the travelogue that Killip collected anything during his canoe trip, his record of the flora in the Adirondack Mountains in the summer of 1914 provides a portal through which modern researchers can observe perhaps a bygone habitat.

It’s rather clear throughout the travelogue that Killip is on vacation. The titles (“An Account of My Canoe Trip through the Adirondacks: My First Travelogue” or “Camping in the Adirondacks”), the entries on the trials and triumphs of canoeing, and the goofy pictures of Killip staring strangely into the camera, all illustrate this well. Soon after the first few pages, however, Killip begins switching back and forth between my-summer-vacation entries and scientific recording. Killip logged the various plants he observed and included general descriptions of the flora in localities he visited. When I found photos of plants with identifications, I knew his habits had taken hold. Killip was turning his vacation into a field trip, as we have seen with so many of these darn scientists. Even in an unsuspecting image of “Mountain Pond,” the subject seems suspiciously (and purposefully) obscured by the foliage on the edge of the pond.

I don’t think there is much skepticism among our readers that such observations can be extremely useful, especially when coupled with dates and accurate locality information (but I’m still going to talk about it). Because Killip’s journal is foremost a travelogue, every location he visits is well documented. At the end of his journal, Killip even includes an itinerary of travel. That’s right Killip; go crazy and record every single plant you see if you want to. Each observation of plant life you form, Killip, is clearly associated with a date and locality. Thank goodness.

If after reading Killip’s travelogue there is any doubt that Killip’s hobby, habit, obsession—whatever you want to call it—became a large part of his trip, one need only look at the three page list of plants observed that is included in a sort of appendix.

For Killip and many other scientists at the Smithsonian (dead and living), this habit of field booking seems more like a compulsion because it shows up during times you’d expect these people to just RELAX. Knowing this, however, a scientist’s personal travelogues or diaries should not be immediately discounted from containing useful scientific information. When the record of a scientist’s travels are available, it might be worth taking a few minutes to see if they couldn’t help but record some field observations. Along with finding a unique personal narrative, you may be unlocking untapped biodiversity information.

Tuesday, 28 August 2012

After cataloging field books from the Department of Botany for the past 7 months, it was both exciting and daunting to tackle the Robert E. Silberglied Papers collection (RU007316) in the Smithsonian Institution Archives.
Silberglied was an entomologist, with a passion for Lepidoptera (butterflies). He collected butterflies and other insects in the United States and abroad from about 1960 to 1984 and had a particular interest in UV reflectivity of butterfly wings, insect vision, and insect behavior. While working as a professor at Harvard University, Silberglied spent summers at the Smithsonian Tropical Research Institute (STRI) in Panama, making collections and conducting experiments.

I found out early in my research that Robert E. Silberglied died quite young—a mere 36 years old--in the tragic Air Florida plane crash of 1982. I wonder what more he could have contributed if he had not been taken at such a young age.

Silberglied’s field books span 10 years (1965-1975), from when he was just 19 years old until he was 29. The notes seem to incorporate the variety of media that fall into our definition of field books—journals, field data, hand-drawn maps, sketches, photographs, charts. Some of his field books cross the fine line between personal diaries and scientific data books, with entries on parties he attended and opinions of people he met residing alongside tables of data on insects that he observed or collected in the field.

It’s hard to relate just how interesting Silberglied’s books are with a few photos. None of the pages are extraordinary on their own, but together they feel like a scrapbook of an entire collecting trip. Narrative, visual diagrams, renderings, and collected objects (including postcards and a few Mexican beer labels) are all compiled in a single volume.

I have a notion that Silberglied was a bit of an artist, though I can’t find any evidence of formal artistic training in his past. Besides utilizing color in his field books in a variety of ways, he also sketches to document his field observations and lab experiments. In looking through the materials in the collection (both field book and other materials) I found something that seemed to confirm my belief—a folder of tiny stamps depicting a butterfly, a beetle, and other insects. Silberglied carved these stamps out of regular (think Pink Pearl) erasers, with impressive detail and technique. The largest stamp is only about 1 inch square. I’m unsure of what Silberglied used these stamps for, or if he made them simply for fun.

Silberglied was also a talented and inventive photographer. Silberglied’s relationship to photography is so fascinating, in fact, that I will have to promise another blog post dedicated entirely to that topic.

I can’t help but admire Silberglied’s seamless integration of science and creativity. He was obviously a visual soul and an avid observer and documenter. Certainly, the blend makes for an interesting person, an accomplished scientist, and some very cool field notes.

Friday, 24 August 2012

Sunset in a harbor on Long Island Sound. Relaxing in a hammock suspended from the mast.

For the last year and half I’ve cataloged materials from field work across the globe. Sitting at my desk and reading these accounts inspired wanderlust. So this summer I took part in a little adventure with several friends and headed out on a 35-foot sailboat to New England for two weeks.

I wondered how much my work would affect the way I experienced the trip. As the days counted down to departure, I was already sympathizing with collectors who wrote about their first times at sea—excited and nervous about group dynamics, space restrictions, and weather challenges. I’ve cataloged several maritime surveys of the east coast including the United States Navy Buoy Fouling Survey, 1943-1947 as well as Bureau of Fisheries studies that focused on Chesapeake Bay fisheries and oysters in Long Island Sound. I was curious to know if the subject matter I cataloged would influence me. After my return, I realized cataloging changed the details I remember and kinds of questions I ask.

So in what ways did cataloging field notes affect my vacation? One would be the marked fascination I had with buoys and day markers because of my work on the Buoy Fouling Survey. I kept wondering if these buoys were the types the survey pulled and studied. We photographed several of these.

Buoys seen enroute.

Our route went through the Potomac River, Chesapeake Bay, Delaware Bay, off the coast of New Jersey, and Long Island Sound. These are all active fishing grounds. During previous sailing trips before cataloging for the Field Book Project, I was more aware of passing (and thankfully dodging) crab pots and fishing nets than anything else. This time, having been influenced by several collections of fisheries field notes, I was more mindful of where we passed oyster beds, schools of fish, or dolphin pods gathering around fishing boats. When coming into harbor at the end of the day, I began to notice the range of fouling marine life. I also noticed more about the boats we passed, like commercial fishing vessels with extended nets. These reminded me of countless field book entries describing dredging and seine net fishing.

Our route went near buoys studied as part of United States Navy Buoy Fouling Survey seen in map to the right. Map of Delaware Bay in the vicinity of Cape May, noting the placement of buoys studied as part of the United States Navy Buoy Fouling Survey, 1943-1947. SIA RU7248, Box 2, Folder 14. SIA2012-9674.

At one point, three miles off the coast of New Jersey, we were attacked by flies (seemingly from nowhere). After my vacation, while I was cataloging in the Department of Entomology, National Museum of Natural History, I thought to ask David Furth, Entomologist and Collections Manager, about this experience. I learned about the ability of weather currents to blow insects like flies miles from their regular habitats.

I realized my work has taught me to see in a different way, respond differently to what I see, and ask better questions. I realize as a cataloger I spend a lot of time during the day looking down and reading archival materials. My vacation showed me that field notes and the collectors have helped me learn to be more cognizant when I look up.

As a summer pre-program conservation intern with the Smithsonian Center for Archives Conservation, I’ve had the opportunity to work with a variety of book and paper objects. The Center for Archives Conservation is a treatment laboratory located at the Smithsonian Institution Archives (SIA) that provides conservation services for SIA’s permanent collections, as well as for sister archives and special collections within the Smithsonian community. Primarily I have worked on field books, paper objects from the National Museum of Natural History (NMNH). As my time here is ending, I thought I’d share with you all some of the work I’ve been doing: the field books of Harrison G. Dyar.

Harrison Gray Dyar (1826-1929) was a leading early 20th century entomologist who greatly refined the description of moths and mosquitoes and our understanding of their life cycles. Well known and deeply opinionated, Dyar was able to devise calculations on how to measure the growth of insects, while also discovering new species.

Though to some Dyar’s scientific focus could seem dry, no one could say that of his personal life. Dyar married his first wife, Zella Peabody in 1889, and they had two children, Dorothy and Otis Dyar. By 1914, many suspected Dyar of having two families in Washington, D.C.—one with Zella and one with Wellesca Pollack Allen. Dyar obtained a divorce from his wife Zella in 1916 and married Allen in 1921, adopting Allen’s 3 sons, Wilfred P., Harrison G., and Wallace P. (thought to be his) upon their marriage. Additionally, Dyar dug tunnels beneath his two homes in D.C. These tunnels extended as deep as 32 feet and were multi-level with concrete walls. Discovered in 1924, the press hypothesized their creation by German spies. Dyar publicly claimed them as his pastime. His intriguing personal life, however, did not disrupt his work for the USDA and the National Museum (now the Smithsonian’s National Museum of Natural History) as the Custodian of the National Lepidoptera Collections from 1897 until his death in 1929.

Dyar was a prolific researcher and created 29 “Blue Books” with notes on the numerous specimens he collected and observed. Dyar was thrifty despite being independently wealthy. Some of these books were new and meant specifically for note taking, whereas others were originally designed for different purposes. The latter included a day planner, numerous grocery store receipt books (where Zella wrote their grocery transactions–Dyar wrote between her script), as well as his mother’s household ledger.

These varied types of books have necessitated a range of treatment types to ensure their readiness for digitization. Some books required simple mends to tears with Japanese paper (thin, long fibered paper known for flexible strength) and wheat starch paste, while making sure all of his inserted notes (such as on the backs of checks) are in their own safe little envelopes. Some inserts even contained beautiful watercolors of the specimens! During this process, I have grown to understand Dyar’s working method. He does not number his pages, but places them in chronological order of his numbered specimens and records his observations. It took working on a few books before both the cataloger and I figured this out!

This knowledge was extremely helpful when working with other books that necessitate more extensive care, for example, those with pages that have ripped free from the binding, are out of order, and are in danger of being lost. These books required more time as I needed to disbind the book into its individual pamphlets and then resew it. (For further details on this process, check out an awesome earlier Field Book Project blog post by conservator Anna Friedman!). This process is particularly satisfying as I know I have improved the longevity of the object, while also aiding in the researcher’s understanding of the object.

As my time here winds down and I finish the Dyar collection, it has reminded me of the many shapes, sizes, and ways field notebooks are created by different scientists. I thought I’d share some of the variety with you all that I have been so fortunate to work with this summer. I hope you enjoy seeing them as much as I have enjoyed working on them!

Resources

Epstein, Marc E. and Pam Henson. (1992). Digging for dyar: The man behind the myth. The American Entomologist, 38(3), 148-169.

Friday, 17 August 2012

While cataloging the field notes of David Griffiths (1867-1935) I was intrigued to find interesting markings in one book. The book includes Griffiths’s field notes from Texas and Mexico, 1905. It looked as if something wet was stamped on the paper and then outlined in pencil. Upon further investigation, I excitedly formed a theory that remains unproven.

During the time this book was created, Griffiths worked for the USDA, where he studied grasses as well as cacti of the United States southwestern region and northern Mexico. The Department of Botany, National Museum of Natural History, has ten of Griffiths’s field books.

An image that possibly shows the stamped cross-section of a flower and fruit.

Reading through the 1905 field book, I saw that Griffiths was collecting Opuntia species, focusing especially on fruit. Griffiths’s entries included detailed physical observations of cacti specimens (fruit color, flower color, size, shape, etc.) and notes on the use of fruits as food. Locally, the fruits are called “tuna” and Griffiths includes notes on how Mexicans cut and eat them.

My hypothesis is this: Griffiths cut the fruit lengthwise and pressed the cross section against the paper to record the shape and size of the fruit. He then traced an outline, possibly to indicate the peel or skin of the fruit, and the knobby appearance of the outsides of it. The light-colored powder may be mold from the juices.

I asked Rusty Russell, Collections Manager in the National Museum of Natural History Department of Botany, what insights he could offer. He hadn’t seen anything similar recorded in field books before, but thought that my “cactus fruit stamp” hypothesis sounded plausible.

I’m still unsure what the check mark means. I hoped that it meant that the specimen was collected, since collector numbers seem to be included with most entries. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find a match between specimens recorded in the field book and the collections in the U.S. National Herbarium, so all of this is still just an educated guess.

I’d love to hear if anyone else has come across this kind of field note recording. I would also be very interested to know if anyone does something similar in their own field notes! Please feel free to comment below.

Wednesday, 15 August 2012

Nowadays it is common practice to use photographs to record and track specimens, but before photography became a tool of scientific documentation, field researchers had to develop and use their artistic abilities. As an intern with the Smithsonian Institution Archives Digital Services Division working on the Field Book Project, I have seen the use of artistic illustrations to document specimens in the papers of Fielding Bradford Meek, the resident collaborator in paleontology at the Smithsonian in the mid-1800s. Meek’s correspondences with Timothy Abbot Conrad are the perfect example of how scientists used drawings and sketches to classify and record what they found.

RU7230_B03_F45_004 Timothy Abbot Conrad. Paleontologist. 1904.

T. A. Conrad (1803-1877) was a conchologist and paleontologist at the Smithsonian. He took interest in the natural sciences from an early age, like his father, Solomon White Conrad, a mineralogist and botanist. The younger Conrad followed in his father’s footsteps and became a leader in the field of natural sciences. He was a member of the Academy of Natural Sciences, the American Philosophical Society, and several other societies world-wide.

Throughout his career, Conrad collected and researched shells and discovered several fresh water species. His correspondence with Meek, mostly relating to their collaborative efforts to identify and classify shells, spans nearly two decades (circa 1857-1875) and sometimes includes multiple letters on the same day.

RU7062_B01_F14_485 and 506 Shells Conrad asked Meek to help identify. March 2, year unknown. January 1, year unknown.

In his letters, Conrad mainly drew in black pen or pencil and shaded the sketches to illustrate depth and texture. He accompanied the sketches with detailed descriptions of the shells and where they came from. The drawings and information Conrad provided generally enabled Meek to identify various genera of shells; however, they still had their fair share of debates over whether certain genera were correct.

Conrad was well known for the large number of publications he produced and for his artistic abilities, which he used to illustrate his publications. In Conrad’s biography, Dr. Charles C. Abbott wrote, “His skill in drawing was remarkable and early developed. He not only made his own illustrations, but did considerable for others, as the shells, seaweed, and other small objects on some of Audubon’s plates of birds.”

RU7062_B01_F14_432 “I have seen the muscular impression of this species (No 8) though not in this specimen. It is like the others.” – T.A. Conrad, Date Unknown.

In his first publication, American Marine Conchology, or Descriptions and Colored Figures of the Shells of the Atlantic Coast (1831), Conrad wrote in the preface, “it is designed to supply a deficiency which has long been felt by the cultivators of American natural history.” He included in this volume seventeen plates, which he drew, and his sister colored. His second publication illustrated “new” fresh-water shells of the United States; although later, others laid claim to some of Conrad’s species. This slight hiccup, however, did not deter Conrad. In the Journal of the Philadelphia Academy of Natural Sciences, he published anywhere from one to a dozen articles in each of the first thirty-six volumes. The first four volumes contain eleven of his contributions, “all of which are profusely illustrated” according to Dr. Charles C. Abbott.

Surely Conrad’s artistic contributions to his fields helped in changing the way scientists record information. Conrad’s letters to Meek show how early scientists began documenting specimens they found and collected, and his publications included beautifully detailed illustrations of the shells he classified. Those incredible drawings make one really appreciate the amazing multi-disciplined and multi-talented scientists who developed the fields of study we explore and reference today.

Friday, 10 August 2012

As part of our Beyond The Field Book Project section of this blog, we are initiating a series of interviews to learn more about who uses field books and for what kinds of research. The other week I had the privilege of interviewing Kay Behrensmeyer, PhD, in the Department of Paleobiology. She is a contributing author to “Field Notes on Science & Nature” and keeps meticulous field notes herself. She shared some great information on the role of field notes in her own research, which focuses on Paleoecology and Taphonomy. Taphonomy is the study of how fossils and organic remains are preserved. According to Dr. Behrensmeyer, “Taphonomy [has to do with] the transition from the biosphere to the lithosphere. The fossil record is a tiny sample of life in the past so a lot of my career has been devoted to figuring out what that little sample means in terms of the original animals, plants, and ecosystems. Field notes link the fossils and the age and the lithology and the ancient environments. And everything kind of comes together around that primary data.”

What role do the notes you take in the field play in figuring that out and how would you use that in a lab or how would you describe that process?

Being in the field is a wonderful experience that I love [but] it is a small percentage of my total research time. I learned that you can get distracted and not remember a lot of what’s going on when you do field work. So I began taking really careful notes.

One example I’m [working] with now are Pila snails, known today as “Apple Snails.” The opercula, or “trap doors” of these snails are mineralized in life and relatively easy to fossilize. We collected many of them as in the ancient strata of Pakistan, even though we never see the whole shell. There are bands on the opercula of Pila that could indicate a seasonal climate, so we need to know exactly where they came from. My field books provide that information.

In your piece in Canfield’s publication, it really stood out how important the visual materials – the photographs and the sketches—were to your work.

I’m very visual as a thinker—so if I can connect back with an image like this one of the bone beds, or the strata or even the people […] then I can really get my head back into that space.

Dr. Behrensmeyer's notes and polaroid documentation of a bone bed near the Kenyapithicus Site, November 24, 1987.

I usually worked with an old style Polaroid camera that took black and white because the black and white survives better, archivally. The colors in Polaroid film just didn’t last very well. We used a color polaroid in Kenya, and if you scan them right away then you can archive them, but in the notebooks the prints fade.

And Pakistan--we can’t go back any more, of course, because of the politics. It’s doubly important there to have the diagrams and the Polaroids.

How would you use that information when you come back from the field?

For drawing the stratigraphic sections, the layers, into diagrams. You need to have all the information you can to reconstruct those layers and the strata when you’re back in the lab, and to filter the information about the fossils as well. It’s a tried and true axiom that you need good field observations to do this type of research.

For example, here’s a date and these are the sample numbers. And the tiny writing to fit in as much information as possible on the page. This is a description of the rock type. Its tuff, which is a volcanic ash. This is very important for recording the name of that particular volcanic layer. There’s a rich fossil deposit here and it’s sandwiched between two very nice radiometric dates. It’s very important to document the age as well as the layers that this bone bed was in. We called this the Kenyapithecus site. This is an important early relative in human lineage. In the publication, there’s a much simplified version.

I do a lot of transferring of information from my primary field notes. And they’re always what I go back to if there’s a question.

Do you ever consult field notes that were done for another expedition, for example a historic expedition?

I also worked in the Jurassic Period early in my career. The bone searchers of that time, Marsh and Cope, were out looking for dinosaurs. We used their early records, especially maps, sketch maps, and books. All of that can be a real treasure trove of important information.

Do you find that those historic field books are generally easy to locate?

If it’s a well-known museum, you just ask them if you can visit and look at the field books. Or some of them are reproduced digitally now, although generally you have to go to the museum where the scientist worked. Field notebooks before the 1960’s are not available unless you go to the archives. It would be wonderful if they were more accessible.

So if these were made available online, how would you want to be able to search for them?

Definitely if there are maps, sketches, diagrams, I would want to see those. The place, latitude / longitude – some kind of GIS referencing system. Those are particularly valuable. I had an intern last summer who went to the field notes of the people who collected with Teddy Roosevelt in Africa, and there are catalogs of all the specimens they collected in 1911. It was a real problem figuring out what a place name, then, was now. And there were two identical names for rivers that were in opposite ends of Kenya.

Also any reference to fossils and, of course, the dates. The people that were involved; the institutions; where the camps were. Maybe weather. In a way, it’s a record of what climate was like then, too. In Wyoming, they got snowed-in in May or October, they were pushing the limit because they were on a treasure hunt and they were trying to get the dinosaurs out, according to some of the books you read about those early expeditions. There may not be heavy snow in May anymore. That’s more on the end of the human side of it. That’s also really valuable.

Is there anything else that you would like to add about the use of field books or the value of field books in your research?

They’re a really important part of our legacy and our research. They’re essential.

Thank you, Dr. Behrensmeyer, for sharing your insights on some of the valuable information that we can find recorded in paleontological field notes. Please join us next month for another installation in our interview series when we talk with Curator Emeritus, Storrs Olson, from the Division of Birds.

A sizable portion of field books we’ve cataloged document field work in the US National Parks. It seems logical. National park sites are chosen and preserved because they are unique natural resources; environments like these are bound to attract researchers as well as require environmental monitoring. A cursory search of our catalog records yields results on field notes taken in national parks from 1879 to the 1970’s, around 100 years worth of observations and collecting. However, it is the early years of collecting in national parks that most fascinate me.

I realized while looking through the chronology and content of the materials we’ve cataloged, that the earliest materials document a period of time when the nation was still figuring out how to best manage these sites. The first park, Yellowstone National Park, was established in 1872. Field books about Yellowstone National Park date back to 1887 or earlier in our collection, which is fascinating when considering that the National Park Service (NPS) wasn’t created until 1916. Before NPS, responsibility for managing historical and natural landmarks resided with the War Department and the Forest Service of the Department of Agriculture. (More about the early management of these landmarks is found on the National Park Service website). Furthermore, the field work documented for locations like Yosemite National Park (established 1890) and Grand Canyon (established 1919) extends decades before their national park status. We have field books for work conducted in the Grand Canyon by Charles D. Walcott in the 1870’s; C. Hart Merriam in 1889; and J. W. Toumey in 1892. William Brewer’s field books document collecting in Yosemite Valley in 1862 – 1865.

I contemplated the range of topics I could discuss about national parks before realizing I had the chance to share one of my first “finds”. During my first months of cataloging, I worked on the field notes of Charles Doolittle Walcott. He is best known for his work in the mountains of British Columbia and the discovery of the Burgess Shale. Some of his oldest field books, dating back to 1870’s, document time he spent in the Grand Canyon. I have included a few sketches from his collection below.

The first sketch is from 1879, when Walcott was working in the Kanab Canyon along the north rim for the USGS. The subsequent sketches document Chuar Valley, Grand Canyon, Arizona, c. 1883, and most likely were drawn by B. L. Young who accompanied Walcott.

Sketch of Kanab Canyon by Charles D. Walcott during his field work for the US Geological Survey, October 15 - November 3, 1879. Smithsonian Institution Archives. RU007004, Box 32, Folder 1. SIA SIA2012-9643 .

These drawings show different levels of drawing acumen and were created for different purposes. Walcott’s sketch with a note indicating the location of his tent marked “yours truly” seems to be for the purpose of showing the immense scale of the canyon. B. L. Young’s dramatic depictions of the valley probably prove a more accurate recording of the valleys current geological state. However, both sets of drawings impart important information about the scale and beauty of the region.

This grandeur of scale, biodiversity, and beauty of the Grand Canyon and other National Parks has been depicted in countless other researchers' field notes for well over 100 years. These notes stand as a testament to the enduring quality and importance of our nation's parks.

Friday, 03 August 2012

A page from the tin tag record for the 1907-1910 cruise of the Albatross in the Philippines. From National Museum of Natural History (U.S.), collected notes, lists, catalogs, illustrations, and records on fishes, circa 1835-1974 and undated, SIA RU007220. Photo: Alice Doolittle.

When I began cataloging field books in the Division of Fishes at the National Museum of Natural History a few weeks ago, one of the first books I pulled off the shelf was a record book of tin tag numbers used on a cruise of the research vessel Albatross in the early 1900s. This kind of log book is really no different from any other field catalog of specimens; it contains a list of unique numbers assigned to individual specimens in the field as they are collected. The catalog usually includes basic collection information, as well, such as where and when the specimen was collected. I was not, however, familiar with tin tags, or their textile counterparts, linen tags and silk tags. In fact, I realized that I didn’t know much about the whole process of collecting and preparing fish specimens, and I wanted to know more.

By now I’ve looked through enough field books to have learned that there are many ways that fish are collected—trawling, seining, hook-and-line fishing, and spearfishing, to name a few. But what happens after that? Dr. Jeff Williams, Division of Fishes Collection Manager, gave me an insider’s view on collecting fish in the field. Jeff described a typical scene on a research vessel: scores of fish on the deck of a ship, having just been brought on board in a trawl net. The fish are sorted into species right there on deck. They get tagged—Jeff uses paper tags and a fish tagging gun, like a price tag gun you might see in a clothing store. In the past, collectors tied tin, silk, or linen tags to the fish with string.

A tin tag tied to the tail of a Priacanthus arenatus. Photo: Alice Doolittle.

Along the way, Jeff photographs the fish in a portable tank. It is important to take a photograph when the fish is still fresh, as its colors will start to fade fairly quickly. This would explain why field books I’ve worked with—many of which pre-date portable cameras—sometimes contain colorful sketches of collected fish, or include detailed “color notes” describing the patterns and colors of collected fish. (See “When Are Drawings Field Notes?” for more on this topic.)

The fish are preserved with formaldehyde and shipped in batches to the museum, where they are further processed before becoming fully-fledged museum specimens. The fish then are preserved in alcohol for long-term storage.

The alcohol preservation is done in stages, in an effort to minimize the shrinking that the alcohol causes. Another insight into field notes! Ichthyologists often record fish lengths in their notes, sometimes taking several other size measurements, as well. Now that I know the museum specimen will be a bit smaller than the fish in the wild, I can understand why a collector might want to take field measurements while the fish is still fresh.

Museum Specialist Kris Murphy took me on a tour of the Smithsonian’s fish collection so that I could see the fruits of all this collecting labor. Like the fish themselves, the jars that house them come in all different shapes and sizes—even canning jars, complete with “Le Parfait” raised lettering on the side. For me, the best part of touring the collection was being able to track down fish whose tin tag numbers I saw while cataloging field books—some collected more than a hundred years ago. Now when I look at a tin tag record book, I don’t just see a list of numbers, but the fish themselves, residing on shelf after shelf in the Smithsonian’s incredible library of biodiversity.

The Field Book Project is an initiative to increase accessibility to field book content that documents natural history. Through ongoing partnerships within and beyond the Smithsonian Institution, the Project is making field books easier to find and available in a digital format for current research, as well as inspiring new ways of utilizing these rich information resources.